Ooh La La
by atheneblue
Summary: A "Breaking Away" story.  Moocher X OC.  Takes place one year after the events of the movie.  Even a married man has to grow up sometime...
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This fic is based entirely on the Peter Yates film. I haven't even seen the tv series, despite my obsessive pursuit of all things JEH (I'm going to refrain from calculating the percentage of my fics that are JEH-based). Rated M for later chaps. Feedback always welcome!

oooOOOooo

May, 1980 (one year later).

It was usually Mike who got Moocher in trouble. Moocher was accustomed to this fact, had come to grips with it long since. It had been the pattern since grade school. He recognized all Mike's quirks and triggers, could identify the signs that a storm was brewing, had even developed contingency plans. He knew how to break glass in case of fire.

Unfortunately, it would not be Mike, but Cyril who got him into it this time.

They were sitting on the red metal-lattice benches at the Dairy Queen that was halfway to Terre Haute. Cyril had been the one with the craving for a Blizzard, which sparked a sudden yen in each of the friends for a particular DQ treat, so it was really Cyril's fault that they had driven almost an hour, using gas that they could not afford, to buy fast food they might have gotten at the diner around the corner from the house they rented. And it was Cyril who mentioned the chance encounter that would get Moocher into serious trouble.

"You guys remember that little fire-crotch substitute teacher?" the lanky Cutter asked, mouth full of his longed-for Blizzard. "Really young?"

"Yeah, Miss Tagliaferro," Moocher said around his second chili dog, pronouncing the name the southern way, the way she had explained to them when they were students: _Tolliver_.

Mike tucked his unlit cigarette behind his ear and squirted out more ketchup for his onion rings. "Moocher only remembers her because she was shorter than him," he commented.

"No way, man," retorted the diminutive Cutter, grinning. "I remember her because she never wore a bra."

"Remember that time she subbed for Mr. Carpenter in American History?" Cyril drawled, leaning back on the bench to stretch out his long legs under the table. "That room got so damn cold. Kept those headlights on all the time, know what I mean?" He slapped Mike's arm fraternally.

"Oh, yeah..." Dave thoughtfully let the melting soft-serve drip out of his spoon into the paper bowl. "She subbed in Latin a couple of times."

The former basketball player rolled his eyes. "Anyway, Miss T. comes into the store yesterday with this _cute_ blonde. Legs up to her neck. Turns out it's her _cousin_. She's a co-ed over at the U."

"_Qui? Mademoiselle_ Tagliaferro?"

"No, Dave. The cousin. Her name's Ally. She's studying finance." Cyril raised his eyebrows meaningfully at his blond friend. "And one day she is going to bear my children."

"Does _she _know that?" Mike snorted.

"Not yet," Cyril admitted grandly, "but she'll be one step closer to motherhood on Friday. She invited us to a thing at her place."

"'Us'?" Moocher echoed.

"'A thing'?" Mike repeated scornfully, exchanging a look with his auburn-haired friend.

"Miss T. totally remembered all of us. She knew exactly who I meant when I asked if I could bring you guys."

"_Une fete! Formidable!_" Dave declared, throwing his plastic spoon into the empty bowl, where it rattled softly, then tipped out onto the table.

"A party? With college kids?" Moocher clarified. His eyes flicked toward Mike. The ex-quarterback was staring at his last onion ring.

"Come on!" There was a slight whine in Cyril's voice He looked at each of his friends in turn, but even Dave regarded him doubtfully. "We'll show them that Cutters know how to party. I'll bring my guitar!"

Mike grabbed his onion ring and pitched it at Cyril. "How do you say, 'No goddamn way' in French?" he asked Dave.


	2. Chapter 2

Dave had wanted to bring wine to the party, a proposition that was shot down immediately and in no uncertain terms. Once they had agreed on beer as the appropriate hostess gift, Mike had placed a bid for Miller Lite.

"Uh, that's a negative," Cyril had insisted as he opened the grocery store cooler. "It's PBR or nothing. Mother's milk."

"So much for looking _less_ trashy," Moocher had muttered, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"Own it, brother," Cyril exhorted, and reached for the case of Pabst.

Dave's student status lent them some credibility, though not much, as they entered the little house on Clover Street. The Cutters were used to the looks they received from college kids. The expressions on the faces of the half-dozen young people in the front room were nothing new to them. The disdain still stung, however. Fortunately, a blonde with huge glasses greeting Cyril almost immediately forestalled any violent reaction on Mike's part.

Despite the glasses, Ally was cute, as promised. And she did have impossibly long legs for a girl of her height. Best of all for Cyril, she genuinely seemed to like the lanky youth. After he introduced Ally to the boys, she led them through a narrow hallway into a tiny kitchen, where a petite redhead was mixing drinks in a blender that had seen better days.

"Holy shit!" Mike crowed, slapping his thigh. His lips pulled apart to reveal that grin which had moistened the panties of many a girl at Bloomington South. "Miss T.!"

The former substitute teacher turned toward the newcomers and rolled her eyes. "Hello, Michael," she said drily, her slight southern accent making her remark sound even more sardonic. She put her hands on her hips and regarded the young men, shaking her head. The ruffles on her blouse did nothing to hide the unfettered nature of her breasts. Cyril caught Moocher's eye and winked. She saw the signal and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Good to see you again, Cyril. And it's David, isn't it? Stoller?"

Dave nodded, flashing his goofy but winning smile. He grabbed the case of PBR from Cyril and hefted it onto the table. Opening an ice-chest, Ally handed around cold beers.

Assessing green eyes flicked toward Moocher. He shifted uncomfortably under their intense gaze. "Terry?" the redhead asked hesitantly. "Terry Muchnik, right?"

Mike snorted as he sucked the foam from the popped top on his beer. Cyril grinned crookedly.

"Uh, it's Moocher, Miss T.," the shortest Cutter corrected, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment.

"And it's Caroline," she shot back. "Cara." She padded toward the icebox on bare feet. A smirk curved her lips. "Enjoy yourselves, boys. But don't do anything I wouldn't do." She looked pointedly at Cyril as she pulled out a stack of ice trays from the freezer.

"Come on!" Ally said brightly, turning on one high-heeled espadrille. She smiled shyly up at the former basketball player. "Let me introduce you around."

Mike pulled a face at the prospect of making nice with college kids, but followed Cyril and the blonde into the front room nevertheless. Dave wandered after them in his idle, unhurried fashion. Moocher took a step toward the door, but pulled up short to hear a cascade of ice cubes clatter against the linoleum. The redhead cursed under her breath. Moocher whirled and, following his naturally friendly instincts, returned to pick up the stray cubes.

"Oh, thanks, sugar," she said, a little embarrassed. "Here." She opened the ice-chest for him to chuck the dirty ice in. He tried to ignore the smooth, fair skin of her legs under her denim mini-skirt. Her toenails were painted electric pink.

"Sure, Miss Tee – uh, Cara." He blushed and leaned back against the edge of the counter, watching her twist another plastic ice tray, very carefully this time, until its contents slid into the blender. He had never stood so close to her before. He could see now that Mike had been right: she was inches shorter than Moocher. "Can I help with anything?"

She looked up at him, smiling, and brushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. "Wanna put those beers y'all brought into the ice-chest?"

Moocher nodded amiably. Tearing open the thin cardboard of the case, he began to unload the cans. "Jeez, I can't believe you remember all of us," he said, but Cara was pulsing the blender to crush the ice.

"Hm?"

"I said, 'I can't believe you remember all of us'," he repeated lamely.

The redhead shrugged. "I have a good memory for names." She added tequila and triple sec to the mixture in the blender. "But I remember the four of y'all especially." Her side-swept bangs shadowed her green eyes as she turned her head slightly toward him. "I was there for the Great Shepherd's Pie Fight of '77."

"Goddamn," Moocher laughed. "I'd almost forgotten about that." He snuggled the last of the PBR cans into the bed of ice and closed the chest. "That was all Mike, just so ya know."

Cara hummed doubtfully, smirking, and approached the cups set up on the kitchen table with the glass pitcher from the blender. "Not sure that it was Mike who made you climb up on a cafeteria table and launch yourself at half the defensive line like some kind of Mexican wrestler." She was giggling even before she could finish talking. When Moocher started laughing, she lost her composure completely and began shaking so hard with mirth that she had to set down the pitcher. She had to wipe her eyes before she could start pouring out the margaritas.

Chuckles dying down, Moocher broke down the cardboard from the beer case. "You still subbing over at the high school?" he asked.

She shook her head, scowling sarcastically. "Too much excitement for me. And the principal _may _have asked me not to return." She caught his look of amazed interest. "I got into it with him when he tried to cover up Lou Gallihugh getting Sandra Holloway pregnant because 'boys will be boys'."

"Mr. Gallihugh the phys. ed. teacher?" Moocher gaped incredulously. The cardboard hung forgotten from his fingers. "Shit. Sandy was in my homeroom freshman year..."

"Care, are those margaritas done yet?" Ally asked from the midst of a pile of young people crowding into the kitchen. Moocher noticed that Cyril had his hand in the small of the blonde's back.

"Yeah, help yourselves." The redhead waved them toward the cups on the table and took the empty pitcher to the sink for rinsing. The margaritas were dispersed almost instantaneously.

"Hey, are you six years older than me, or seven?" the blonde asked her cousin, handing Cyril a drink. "I can never remember."

"I was trying to figure out how old you were when we were seniors," Mike interpolated helpfully. He flashed his eyebrows.

"Six," Cara answered, eyes dancing with amusement.

Leaning in the doorway, Dave frowned. "_Mais_, when did you graduate from _l'universite_?"

Cara re-affixed the glass pitcher to the blender and headed to the freezer for more ice. "Didn't. I only made it three semesters."

"How did you get to be a substitute teacher then?" Cyril asked. "Fake a diploma?"

The redhead laughed and shook her head, pouring tequila into the blender. "Oh, Christ! All you need to sub is a high school degree and no felony convictions."

"The man behind the curtain..." Cyril muttered.

oooOOOooo

"I must veeseet the water clo_set_," Dave announced in his fake French accent.

"Okay, man." Moocher leaned against the back of the house and cocked up one knee, bracing the sole of his Converse on the siding. He was watching the college kids play beanbags in the backyard. Their shouts drowned out the sound of Caroline Tagliaferro sidling up to him.

"Is Cyril trying to screw my cousin?" she asked.

Moocher's eyes went wide, and he slugged back some beer to cover his discombobulation.

"Come on, sugar," Cara urged. She leaned against the house next to him and cocked her head. "You're not revealing a state secret."

"Yeah, I guess he's kinda into her," he admitted reluctantly.

"I'd rather it was Dave," she told him in a low voice. She looked around to see who was standing nearby, but the only others in the backyard were the beanbagging Hoosiers. "I mean, not that anyone asked me. And don't tell Cyril I said that," she begged, eyes wide.

Moocher could not restrain a conspiratorial smile. "Dave's going with somebody. She's a French exchange student from the college, Charlotte."

Cara made a face to indicate disappointment and took a sip of her beer. "What about you?" she asked casually. "You still seeing Nancy...uh..." She trailed off, forgetting the blonde girl's last name.

Moocher took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. "Well, sort of. Actually, we, uh, we got married."

Cara choked on her beer. "Seriously?" she asked, raising her eyebrows at him

"Yep," he answered, a little ruefully.

"Fuck me," the redhead cursed wonderingly. She licked her lips. "You knock her up?"

"No," he spluttered, dropping his foot to the ground. "Why does everyone ask that?"

The corner of her mouth turned up in a lopsided grin, and she indicated the crucifix around his neck with her eyes. He sighed. She eyed him over her beer. "So you married her to do the thing that _gets_ girls knocked up."

Moocher frowned, snorting, and wrapped his arms around himself. "I married her because I love her."

"I'm sure you do."

The Cutter's head turned sharply, jaw clenched, to see the inevitable smirk, but her face was open and calm. She had spoken completely without irony.

"Aw, _bitchin'_ throw!" one of the beanbaggers declared. He high-fived one of his polo-shirted teammates, who spilled his drink. A girl tittered.

Moocher glanced up to see Dave's head pop around the doorframe from the inside of the house. He looked at Moocher appraisingly for a long moment, then disappeared. The auburn-haired youth squinted at the empty space where his Francophile friend had been. He drained his beer can and crushed the aluminum with a twist of his hands. "She's moving to Terre Haute with her mom," he said quietly.

"She what?" Cara's eyebrows drew down in confusion and concern.

"I haven't told them yet. The guys."

She moved slightly closer to him. He could smell the beer on her breath, and girl-sweat, and something citrusy and sweet. She had to look up to meet his eyes. "Y'all getting a divorce?"

Moocher shrugged. "We're just gonna see what happens, I guess."

"Shit," she commented, her drawl stretching the word into two syllables. Cara had lived in Bloomington long enough to know that, in his circle, that single expletive could communicate any number of emotions succinctly, sympathy included.

He nodded in understanding.

Cara tapped the side of her beer can contemplatively with her fingernails. "So why tell me?" She peered up into his face.

"Jesus, I don't know," he sighed, looking away and shaking his head.

"Well, I wish you luck, anyway." She looked toward the door, then turned back to him. "And, uh, it's good to see you. Terry Muchnik." She kissed his acne-studded cheek and wandered into the house.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: This chapter...not awesome. But I felt it was a necessary prelude to the **M** sexy tiems in chap 4, seeing as how I like to write Porn **WITH** Plot...

I don't own these characters (except for Cara and Ally). Music is credited. Please review, so I can make positive changes!

oooOOOooo

"Why did your cousin invite Cyril to that party at your place?" Mike challenged, typically belligerent, straddling the bench of the picnic table in the Stollers' backyard.

Cara took a sip of her iced tea and eyed the Cutter sitting next to her contemplatively. "What, you didn't have a good time?"

"We had a great time, Cara," Moocher interjected, conciliatory, from the other side of the table. "Thanks for having us."

Mike rolled his eyes. "Well, that's great and all, Mooch, but, meanwhile, Cyril thinks he's in love. Inviting him to that party just encouraged him."

The redhead spread her hands interrogatively, raising her eyebrows.

The ex-quarterback stabbed some of the potato salad that Cara had made and thrust it into his mouth. "The Cutter and the college girl?" he asked, flicking his eyes toward Cyril and Ally, giggling together on the back stoop.

"Ooh," Cara retorted, her voice sarcastically saccharine. "You make it sound like a fairy tale!"

Mike chewed at her sourly. Nancy approached with a plate of food. Setting it down on the table, she held her skirt daintily and scooted carefully onto the bench next to Moocher. She laid an ice-pop down next to his plate; he flashed her a small smile. She looked inquisitively at her young husband, but did not inject herself into the conversation. Tilting the ketchup bottle over her hot dog, she waited for the sauce to meander down into the glass mouth.

"He's just saying he thinks it's trouble," Moocher supplied. He dabbed more mustard onto his burger, then added a mountain of onions, tomatoes, and lettuce.

"Yeah, well," Cara muttered, loud enough for them to hear, "you two would know."

The bottle finally dropped a glob of Heinz 57 onto Nancy's frankfurter. She parted the bun to spread the ketchup with her knife, inadvertently getting some of the sauce on her thumb. She raised the digit to her lips and sucked it, for far longer than was necessary. Cara eyed the childish pose with some annoyance.

Mike looked at each of the couples arrayed around him, then leaned toward Cara. "Interested in getting into some trouble tonight?" he asked, in a low voice that he must have thought was suave because it had made cheerleaders blush.

The redhead looked him over, broadly, then she took a sip of her tea. Her green eyes flickered so quickly that Moocher was not really sure that she had glanced at him. He realized that he had stopped eating and was listening for Cara's answer.

"Well, red? Whaddya say?" Mike prompted.

Her lips twitched in a smile that should have been shy but read to Moocher as a little sassy. "Sorry, hon. Quarterbacks aren't on my to-do list."

Nancy covered her mouth, giggling in shock. Moocher squinted at the redhead and tried to remember the last time he had seen a girl turn Mike down.

"Aw, forget it," Mike grumbled, rising with his empty plate. "Even goddamn _Cyril_ is getting some."

"Uh, he better _not_ be," Cara warned.

Mike made a face and stalked off toward the back stoop, from which Cyril tossed him a football.

Cara stared down at her food and tucked her hair behind her ears. "Y'all going over to the park to see the fireworks?" she asked Nancy and Moocher after a moment.

The mousy blonde moved her fingers close to her husband's hand where it was lying on the picnic table, but did not touch him. "I don't think so," she answered in her shy, almost apologetic way. "We've both got work in the morning."

Moocher sucked deliberately on his ice-pop. Up to this point, he had never said anything snide to Nancy about her dedication to her job at the five-and-dime, despite the fact that she would be leaving town so soon. He did not intend to make any such comment now, especially in front of Cara. Still, part of him wanted to scream, _What the hell does it matter, dummy_?

"Yeah, me too," Cara sighed.

"What do you do now?" Nancy asked politely.

The redhead produced a gesture that was half eye-roll, half shrug. "I'm a secretary over at the U. For the History department. It's really glamorous."

"Oh, that's great," replied the blonde, smiling. "I studied short-hand in school, but I was never any good at it."

Cara nodded, pressing her lips together in the way of one who has absolutely no response. Moocher laid his denuded ice-pop wrapper on his empty plate and rubbed his hands on his thighs. He glanced over at Mike, who had led Cyril and Ally into the middle of the yard. He seemed to be teaching the bespectacled blonde how to throw a football. Moocher wondered if the ex-quarterback was trying to move in on his friend's interest; he filed this under "Mike - Things to Keep an Eye On".

"Nancy, your mother's on the phone," Evelyn Stoller announced, stepping out of the house with a fresh pitcher of iced tea. Moocher glanced at his wife, who avoided his eyes as she rose and went inside. Mrs. Stoller set the pitcher down in the center of the picnic table, then went to join her husband at the grill. As the meat cooked, the elder Stollers watched Dave and Charlotte. The young couple sat on a blanket in the middle of the yard, playing with Dave's new baby brother. The infant crouched on his belly and gurgled at the young woman, performing hectic push-ups. Charlotte cooed at him in high-pitched, rapid French.

Moocher found that he was not uncomfortable sitting alone at the picnic table with Cara; nevertheless an inexplicable twinge of guilt niggled at him. Turning sideways, he swung one foot up onto the bench and clasped his knee.

"We hope you're enjoying your Memorial Day," the disc jockey was saying on the radio. "Now, here's a request from Alex over at the university: from the Faces, it's 'Ooh La La'."

_Poor old grandad  
__I laughed at all his words  
__I thought he was a bitter man  
__he spoke of women's ways  
__they'll trap you and they'll use you  
__before you even know  
__for love is blind and you're far too kind  
__don't ever let it show_

Moocher looked over at Mike, who was positioning Ally's fingers on the laces of the football for a good spiral. Cyril hovered nearby like a nervous giraffe.

"Think that's something we should interrupt?" Cara asked, following the line of Moocher's gaze. She rested her arms on the picnic table and cupped her hands around her iced tea.

"Thought you didn't want Cyril near your cousin?" he responded, one eyebrow cocked, half-teasing.

"Yeah, well, I want Mike around her even less. He is too charming by half."

_I wish that I knew what I know now  
__when I was younger_

Moocher eyed her curiously. "So why don't you wanna go out with him?" He had leaned into the picnic table, toward her, without realizing it.

Cara blinked at him, and he was surprised to see that she was blushing."Look, I'm sure he's a good guy," she said quietly. "But I don't think much of guys who talk big." She pinned him with her eyes, emerald-green above the flush of her cheeks. "They say that still waters run deep. I believe that."

_they come on strong  
__and it ain't too long  
__before they make you feel a man  
__but love is blind and you soon will find  
__you're just a boy again_

Moocher heard movement behind him. Cara turned her gaze from him to her iced tea as Nancy returned to the picnic table. The mousy blonde did not sit down. "Momma wants me home."

"All right. Let's go." Jaw clenched, Moocher rose, digging into his pocket for the keys to the shitty pick-up that he had bought from Mr. Stoller. When Nancy said 'home', she did not mean the tiny apartment they shared, the one that she had originally thought was so cute she "could _scream_". She spent just as much time, if not more, at her mother's house, helping out with her little brothers and sisters. Moocher, for his part, practically lived at the rental home shared by Cyril and Mike. Why the married couple even bothered to pay rent on the apartment was just one more thing they never discussed. Judging by the studied disinterest on Cara's face, the tension between him and Nancy was pretty obvious.

"Nice to see you, Cara," she said now, giving the redhead a little wave.

"Yeah," Cara answered thoughtfully. "Likewise."

While Nancy turned to say her goodnights to everyone else, Moocher stood for a moment, looking down at Cara. She put her chin in one hand and returned his gaze calmly.

_there's nothing I can say  
__you'll have to learn, just like me  
__and that's the hardest way_

He nodded at her finally, backing away, his boots whispering through the grass. He saw the words form on her lips, more than heard them: "See ya 'round, sugar."

"Mooch?"

"Coming, Nance."

_ooh la la  
__ooh la la la, yeah_


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Rated M for (at last!) sexy tiems. BTW, I can't figure out the model of Mike's car, so I made it a Datsun. Cope with it. :D "Bury Me Not On the Lone Prairie" is an old cowboy ballad and is, I think, the same song Mike adapts for his "A & P" song at the beginning of the film.

oooOOOooo

Cyril's fault. It was seriously all Cyril's fault. It had been Cyril's idea to invite Ally and Cara out to the quarry with them, and, admittedly, a wonderful time had been had by all. But now Moocher was stuck watching Mike help Cara out of the water in the orange light of sunset, and Moocher could see that Mike's eyes, not unlike his own, were glued to the redhead's dripping-wet body. Moocher actually tripped on the way up the side of the quarry, narrowly avoiding a minor landslide, because he was unable to keep his eyes front and away from the t-shirt plastered against Cara's slim torso, her cold-hardened nipples jutting out through the fabric. So far he had managed to avoid staring at the soaked panties that clung to her hips and backside, the now-translucent cotton outlining what appeared to be a reddish-brown cluster of curls atop her mound, but he nearly said a_ Hail Mary_ when they reached the top and she slipped her cut-off jeans back on. This still did not solve the problem of her tits, however.

"Christ, y'all aren't cold?" Cara asked, rubbing her hands briskly along her upper arms.

Ally, who had gone swimming in her bra and panties, wrestled into her completely dry shirt and shook her head. "Maybe if you wore a bra like a normal person..." the blonde teased her cousin.

"Here: try this." Cyril handed Cara the bottle of cheap whiskey he had hidden under a rock for post-natatorial indulgence. "A little dab'll do ya." Ally pulled him down with her, resting her back against a tree and Cyril's head in her lap.

The redhead took a swig and passed the hooch on to Dave. She was still curled inward on herself to conserve heat. Mike moved toward her, clearly intending to wrap an arm (or two) around her. Moocher squinted at the ex-quarterback.

"That blanket in the trunk, Mike?" He had jogged off before the other Cutter could respond and returned moments later with a ratty old quilt that had a long history of picnics and open-air seductions. Cara ducked her head gratefully as Moocher wrapped the raggedy coverlet around her shoulders. "C'mere."

Mike raised his hands in surrender, allowing the shaggy-haired youth to draw the redhead along with him. Ignoring Dave's raised eyebrows, Moocher took a seat on the ground with his back against a large maple and settled Cara between his legs, her back to his chest. She leaned gingerly into his embrace.

"You're really not cold?" she asked softly, turning her head a quarter-inch. He could smell the quarry limestone on her hair and skin.

"Naw, I'm fine," he said, releasing one of his nervous-sounding laughs.

Despite his protest, Cara pulled the quilt from her shoulders and laid it over her knees, covering the majority of both their bodies. She rested her hands lightly on his kneecaps. Her t-shirt had ridden up when she twisted her body, so Moocher slid his hand along her belly to tug the fabric back down. His fingers somehow ended up on the inside of her damp shirt, clasped between his thigh and her lowest rib.

How could she be cold? Her skin felt so hot.

Mike wandered off to one of the big rocks overlooking the quarry and began singing some cowboy song, howling up at the rising moon like the lone wolf he thought he was. Dave lay back on the ground in the middle of the clearing and laced his hands underneath his head.

"So why couldn't Charlotte come tonight?" Ally asked, nudging the blond youth with her toe. She laced the fingers of one hand into Cyril's dark curls.

Moocher kept telling himself to move his hand, but his arm refused to respond. Cara's diaphragm rose and fell under his palm, her tee stretching moist and cool over the back of his hand with each of her breaths. She gave no indication that his touch bothered her.

"...weekend trip to Chicago," Dave was explaining, "zee Paree of zee Midwest."

_Move your hand, ya creep_, Moocher told himself frantically.

Cara laughed at something Cyril had said, then shifted her body, moving her buttock off of some protrusion in the ground. The edge of his forefinger came to rest against the bottom swell of her breast. She settled her head back into the curve of his shoulder, unconcerned. Blood flowed unstoppably into his groin. If he turned his head ever so slightly, he could nuzzle the shell of her ear.

"Do her parents know that she's seeing you?" Ally asked curiously. "I mean, what do they think about an American guy?"

Dave tilted his head toward the blonde girl. "_Zut alors! _She says she writes to them about me all the time. And she's sent some snapshots of us together."

Moocher's hand was itching to caress Cara He could feel the need growing inside him like the ache of hunger, his desire far outstripping the simple pressure of his needy erection.

"..._on the lone prai-ree_," Mike sang, waving his cigarette as if it were the world's shortest baton.

Moocher held his breath and kept his body as still as possible. Only his hand moved, his fingers crawling, itsy-bitsy-spider, around the curve of her breast, until he cupped the soft mound cautiously. Cara did not react. Her nipples were still hard, though whether with cold or arousal, he could not say. Hating himself, but driven by a perverse compulsion, he squeezed her, ever so gently, really just gauging the heft and suppleness of the flesh. Smaller than Nancy's, but firmer. A perfect handful.

"Who's that professor, Care?" Ally called. Moocher tensed, suddenly sure that the whole group knew exactly what he was up to. How could they see? he wondered in a panic. Was the blanket tented up into an opening somewhere? Could they tell just from the shifting of the shapes underneath?

But the redhead answered, "Sutton," her voice completely natural.

"Yeah, Sutton. So he's the one..."

Moocher allowed himself to breathe again, though it was a struggle to keep his lungs from hitching on the exhale. Cara's flesh was burning him. He could feel her nipple pressing insistently against his palm, taunting him, reminding him of how he had sat in American History, enraptured by the pert, untethered, feminist breasts of the young substitute teacher. Now he squeezed her again, more confidently than before. To his delight, she arched her back, almost imperceptibly. He took it as an invitation: shifting the angle of his hand, he found her nipple with his thumb.

"That cat is a bad, bad dude," Cyril said. "Mooch knows. Right, Mooch?"

The smaller Cutter had to clear his throat before he could speak, then he agreed, "Hell, yeah." He did not think anyone had noticed his unusual hoarseness. Except for Cara, whose mouth was curving in a tiny smile. His thumb began to toy with her nipple, and he was pleased to see the smile disappear, her lips compressing tightly. Her breath seemed to come a tick faster. Her hands gripped the big muscles of his thighs convulsively.

Moocher continued to tease her with his thumb, and he began to feel lightheaded. Everywhere his skin touched hers, he crackled with electricity. His erection throbbed in desperation. Cara was trembling ever so slightly under the blanket, but now he knew it was not from chill. Her nails dug into his legs. His heartbeat thudded in his ears. It seemed harder to draw air. For the first time in his life, Moocher seriously pondered the mystery of spontaneous combustion.

He did not think he could stand it anymore: something had to give. Letting his friends' conversation patter around him like raindrops, Moocher released Cara's breast. He felt her breath hitch. His hand trailed, slow as molasses, over her ribcage to her belly, where his fingers grazed the denim waistband of her cut-offs. At last he found the hard knob that was the button of her fly. He began to work at the thick fabric, trying to unhook the button one-handed.

Suddenly Cara was moving, pulling the blanket off of her herself and scooting out from the palisade of his legs. He gritted his teeth and cursed inwardly: he had gone too far and broken the spell. Would she slap him? Would she chew him out in front of everyone?

What Cara in fact did was completely unexpected: somehow in the shuffle of escaping not only his embrace, but that of the quilt, she grabbed his erection. Not tightly, but firmly enough that he knew it was no accidental brush. She met his gaze as she rose to her feet. In the now near-complete dark, Moocher thought her eyes flashed toward the woods.

"Call of nature," she told Ally breezily, responding to her cousin's inquiring look.

"Want me to come with?" the blonde offered, a little reluctantly. Cyril snuggled his head against her thigh as if he would not let her go, even if she wanted to.

Cara shook her head, grinning, and crept off into the woods.

Moocher sat frozen under the blanket and wondered if he had really seen what he thought. He took ten deep breaths. "Aw, hell," he announced, hoping he sounded more annoyed than excited. "Now I gotta go too." He clambered to his feet and stumbled into the trees, turning his body awkwardly to prevent the others from seeing a boner that felt approximately the size of the USSR. Once he was far enough from the clearing, he began to circle back around toward the direction Cara had gone.

She found him first. His heart leapt into his throat when she pushed him against the far side of a limestone boulder. He tried to kiss her, but Cara was already sinking to her knees, her fingers dragging down the length of his torso. She unfastened his fly. His brain commanded his mouth to protest, but he could only groan wordlessly when her hand closed around his erection, quickly followed by her mouth. He slapped the stone with one open palm. She made tiny, glorious smacking sounds as she drew his entire length into her mouth and stroked him artfully with her tongue. The pleasure was intense, both dreamlike and demanding. His eyes rolled up in his head, and he struggled to breathe deeply. Nancy's tentative lickings and sucklings, though touching in their uncertainty, had not prepared him for this level of committed enthusiasm. Cara was satisfying him in a way that suggested she knew his body better than he did, and, frankly, he was happy to yield to her superiority.

With an easy twist of her hand, she pulled back his foreskin and swiped her tongue around his exposed head. He dug his fingernails into the moss on the boulder, fighting off his climax. He was desperate for her to know that he could last as long as she would need him to. But the fervent expertise of her ardor, combined with the mental image of screwing her for hours until they were breathless and sweaty and drained and she gazed at him in admiring adoration and swore off every other man in favor of his adept loving, brought the orgasm crashing down through his pelvis. For a blinding second he feared that his knees might collapse under the force of his ecstasy. He opened his mouth to let a silent scream overwhelm the wail of release that wanted to escape his lungs. Her throat worked as she swallowed down his come, and he pressed his forearm against his mouth to stifle a laugh of delight. Nancy had always spit him out like poison from a snakebite. Yet here was Cara tenderly licking up stray fluids from his flagging length as if she were the devoted wife and lover.

When he released a long, shuddering sigh, Cara rose and swiped the back of her hand over her lips, green eyes on his blue ones. Then, without a word, she left him there in the dark and returned to the clearing.

OooOOOooo

When they got back to the trailhead where the cars were parked, Ally tugged on Cyril's hand, holding him back on the dark path behind their friends. The two could be heard talking quietly and laughing. Cara took a seat on the hood of her beat-up VW Beetle and put her chin in her hands. Mike offered her a stick of gum, which she accepted. He jerked his head toward the invisible couple, theatrically morose. "Don't guess there's any help for it now," he grumbled.

Cara sighed in agreement. Her eyes flicked toward Moocher as she folded the gum into her mouth. He wondered feverishly if she had been able to taste him right up until the Doublemint hit her tongue. She stuck out her hand, palm-up, towards Mike. "Just make sure he wraps that shit, will ya?" she asked him.

"Done," the muscular Cutter answered, slapping her upturned hand and sliding his fingers off. He winked at her broadly. "I buy the bulk boxes anyway."

"Dave?" Cara wailed comically.

"_Oui_, condoms," the blond confirmed from the passenger seat of Mike's car. He waved his arm for her to calm down. "No _petits_ Cyrils."

"Oh, man," Moocher swore, grimacing at the thought. The memory of his encounter with Cara in the woods was becoming more and more dreamlike. It did not seem to jibe with this teasing camaraderie that was so natural amongst the friends, a rhythm into which Cara had fallen easily.

Mike reached in through the driver's-side window of his car and flashed the headlights, revealing shadows and trees and the amorous couple. "Let's go, people. Ya don't have to go home, but ya can't stay here."

It was Cyril blushing, not Ally, when the couple sauntered out of the trees, hand in hand. Cara rose casually from the hood of her Beetle and climbed into the driver's seat. Cyril played the gentleman and opened Ally's door for her. She rose on tiptoes to kiss him boldly, and his eyes went wide with surprise. The leggy blonde slipped into the car. "G'night, boys," she hollered out the open window. Cara jerked her head at them in silent farewell, her damp red locks curled around one side of her neck.

"_Bon nuit, mademoiselles. Bon nuit, mademoiselles_," Dave slurred to the tune of "Good Night, Ladies" as Cara slung her arm over the back of Ally's headrest and reversed toward the state road.

Cyril and Moocher piled into the rear of Mike's car, the tall Cutter sighing, hand over heart. "I want you all to remember this moment," he announced. "This is the moment I decided to propose to Allison Carr. Cue choirs of angels."

Dave looked in the rearview mirror and caught Moocher's eye. He raised his eyebrows and mouthed, "Cara?"

Moocher screwed up his face, ignoring his friend's look of concern. "What?" he mouthed back, willfully ignorant.

Mike had apparently witnessed this interchange and put his own spin on it. "Look, Mooch, don't sweat it, man. I know you're not trying to cock-block me. I thought I could bang her, but even I can see now that's not what she wants."

Dave twisted his body so he could look from Moocher to Mike. The shaggy-haired Cutter kept his silence. "What does she want?" Dave asked carefully.

The ex-quarterback shrugged and flicked his as-yet-unsmoked-but-old cigarette out the window. He turned the ignition, giving the old Datsun a chance to rumble to life. "She just wants a friend, y'know? Someone to be nice and listen to her...like a brother." Putting the transmission in reverse, he backed out of the woods at his usual clip. "That's Mooch all over, right?"

"Awww, just a little teddy-bear," Cyril put in, drumming his fists lightly against Moocher's arm. The shorter youth shook him off in annoyance. Dave had faced forward again, but was still watching him in the rearview.

"Hey, dya think she's a lesbo?" Mike asked suddenly.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: **M**, chilluns! I hope you read, I hope you enjoy, and I hope your review! :p

oooOOOooo

"This cat is the dumbest bad guy I've ever seen," Mike muttered, reaching under the blanket hiding the cooler to get another beer. "What's up with that damn _sweater_?"

Moocher stretched his legs out on the truck-bed and tilted his head back against the cab of his fifteen-year-old Chevy. He squinted up at the drive-in screen. "The knife-glove thing is kinda cool," he offered.

His friend shrugged. "Guess we can ask those dickweeds when they come up for air." He gestured with his beer at his Datsun, which was parked next to them. Dave and Charlotte occupied the front seat; Cyril and Ally had taken the back. Moocher tried not to look too closely: he did not need an image of Cyril necking emblazoned on his retinas. He shifted uncomfortably at the very thought.

"Hey," Mike said suddenly, sitting up straight. "Is that Cara over there? Who's the lard-ass?"

Moocher followed his buddy's eyes to the tan Ford Fiesta parked two spots over and one row forward. He might not have noticed the couple inside, had Mike not pointed them out, but the swirl of flaming-red hair on the girl definitely belonged to Cara. Moocher craned his neck to get a better view of the fleshy, black-furred arm flung around her shoulders. He could see when the guy turned his head toward Cara that he had thick dark hair and a mustache. They were not making out, but the dude's left arm definitely seemed to be engaged in fumbling of some kind. Mike snagged one of his crumpled beer cans and flung the empty at the Fiesta's back bumper. "Hey! Cara!" he hissed forcefully. "Get a room!"

"Jesus, Mike," Moocher muttered, wincing.

The two heads inside the Ford craned around, and they could see the flash of Cara's teeth in a grin. She leaned partway out of the open passenger-side window and merrily flipped them the bird. Mike returned the gesture gaily. "Guess we know why she didn't need any lovin' from yours truly," he muttered to his friend. He squinted at the dark-haired man in the Fiesta. "Looks like she's gettin' it from a prof...or somebody. Christ, I need to get laid." Mike turned back to the movie, apparently pondering the burden of his recent celibacy.

Moocher tried to focus on the film, but his eyes kept wandering toward the tan Ford. Soon he noticed that Cara's date was looming over her; his arms were no longer visible above the line of the backseat, and his head was tilted into the curve of the girl's neck. The sight made Moocher feel slightly ill. He leaned over the side of the truck-bed and spat into the gravel of the parking lot. Deliberately, he turned his gaze back on the movie. He could not have described what was going on in the horror picture, however, because there was another scene running behind his eyes, a scene in which Cara dropped to her knees and sucked him off, wordlessly, in the dark. He had almost been able to convince himself that the events of that night were a dream. He had pushed the memory from his mind as part of his last-ditch efforts to reconcile with Nancy. It was strange: in the beginning, she had been the one chasing him; now he was the only one trying to keep them together. Unfortunately, the way his thoughts kept straying to a redhead who was not his wife did not help the effort.

Rapid movement from the Fiesta drew his attention. He slapped Mike's arm and jerked his head at the Ford; Mike followed his gaze. Cara was shoving the mustached man away, her face twisted with anger or disgust. As the Cutters watched, she flung herself out of the sedan and slammed the door, slinging her long-strapped bag across her torso. She flicked her hair angrily over her shoulders and stomped toward the front gate. The dark-haired man emerged from his car a second later to charge after her. "Cara!" he grunted.

A number of moviegoers leaned disapprovingly out of their windows and shushed him. Others simply continued necking.

Moocher vaulted out of the truck-bed without thinking. He heard Mike's sneakers crunching into the gravel just behind him. "Mooch, what're you doing?" Mike asked warily.

Moocher backed away from his friend without answering, forehead lowered in bullish intent.

"Hey, it's none of your business, man. They're just having a fight or something." Mike gestured toward his Datsun and the couples ensconced inside. "Look: Ally's not worried."

Moocher's expression changed to one of complete incredulity. "Are you serious? A _bomb_ could go off, and those guys wouldn't notice right now."

"Aw, hell, is this because of that thing I said about her wanting a brother?" Mike shoved his hands in his pockets. "You're taking that too seriously, man!"

But Moocher had starting backing away again. "I'm just gonna check on her, okay? If everything's copacetic, I'm right back here." He turned and zig-zagged through rows of cars, leaving Mike behind him with hands upturned in frustration. He fell into an easy lope at the front of the parking lot.

The petite redhead had made it outside the gates by the time Moocher got close. She was hurrying down the access-road, which was surrounded by woods and shadowed by tall trees. In the dim light that the moon cast on the tarmac, he could see the ripple of her legs beneath her long layered skirt, the type he associated with hippie chicks. Her hair swung unbound over a loosely-knit wool cardigan.

"What the hell? You planning to walk home?" the dark-haired man was calling after her. His backside seemed comically wide waddling after Cara; the outline of his wallet was clearly visible inside the fabric stretched too tight over his ass.

She turned her head and yelled, "Frank, I didn't -"

She caught sight of Moocher. Her voice fell silent, and she stopped in her tracks. He could not read the expression that crossed her face at that moment. Frank followed her gaze and whirled around to confront the Cutter. Moocher was trying to decide whether he looked more like a fat Burt Reynolds or a fat Charles Bronson. Frank's dark eyes narrowed.

Bronson, Moocher concluded. In Death Wish. "You okay, Cara?" he asked in a low voice that carried in the warm night air. "Is this guy bothering you?"

"I don't think this concerns you, junior," the dark-haired man stated clearly, straightening his collar.

"Hey, buddy, I wasn't talking to you." The Cutter kept his eyes on Cara, trying to interpret the look she was giving him. Was she begging for his help? Or was she only hoping he would buzz off?

"I'm fine, sugar," she told him softly, but when Frank spread his thick hands triumphantly and turned back toward her, Cara shrank into herself.

The defensive posture sent anger flooding through Moocher's veins. He clenched his jaw and put out a hand. "Come on back with me. I'll give you a ride home."

Cara's date, who had a good six inches and fifty pounds on Moocher, started walking threateningly toward the Cutter. "Look, kid, I don't know who you think you are, but I recommend that you take your scrawny ass back to-"

Moocher failed to hear the remainder of Chubby's suggestion because a haze of rage had clouded his brain, and he was leaping at the man. His right fist connected with the older man's eye socket and then drove low into a pudgy belly. Frank made a 'woof'ing noise and doubled over. Moocher kicked him in the backside with his instep, sending the dark-haired man stumbling along the tarmac. The shaggy-haired youth now found himself positioned between Cara and her date. Blazing with indignation, he barked, "I recommend you take your _tubby_ ass back to that piece-of-shit Fiesta and clear out, before I really get mad."

Hunched-over and humiliated, the man looked back toward Cara. Moocher turned to find that she had moved closer to him.

"Beat it, Frank," she said calmly.

Frank beat it, shuffling back up the access-road toward the parking lot.

"And stay away from Cara," Moocher called after him, his body still shaking with rage. His lungs heaved.

Then Cara was tugging him urgently by the left hand away from the road. "Come on, before he drives back this way." He trailed after her in a daze. She pulled him into the trees and caught up his right hand to examine it. "Did you hurt yourself?" she murmured solicitously.

Moocher flexed his fingers and laughed, the adrenaline jittering through him. He had smashed just about every bone in that hand at least once during his young life, punching walls or people. "Nothing broken," he replied with confidence.

Smiling, Cara drew his hand toward her and cupped it around her breast. "I can't believe you chased after me like that. Thank you so much."

Moocher just blinked at her for a moment. It seemed so surreal for Cara to be thanking him like this while she wrapped his fingers around her tit. Then he felt her nipple harden under his touch. She released his hand and pulled her small satchel over her head, dropping the bag to the ground. It was only when she bit her lower lip and stared up at him with shy adulation in her green eyes that he clasped his left arm around her waist and slid his right hand under her shirt, claiming her naked breast once more in his grip. She sighed and pressed her palms against him, caressing his chest and shoulders and arms as if he were Hercules, as if he were some divine physical specimen whose musculature drew her touch like a magnet.

The rage slithered out of him, but his heartbeat would not slow. He could not pull enough oxygen from the air. To his amazement, Cara ducked forward to run her tongue up his chest to his collarbone in two clean strokes, tracing the vee of his partially unbuttoned shirt. He hissed with pleasure, his erection suddenly and desperately throbbing.

"You saved me," she whispered, a devilish smile curving her lips as she grabbed hold of his crucifix and tugged, pulling him with her by the chain until she bumped up against a tree.

It had been ages since he had kissed a girl so much smaller than him; he felt he could be a giant leaning down to press his mouth against hers. She responded to his kiss hungrily, arching herself against him with a tiny gasp. When he thrust his tongue between her teeth, she flung her arms around his neck as if she were drowning. He found her hardened nipple with his thumb, remembering how much she had enjoyed that before, and this time she gave voice to her delight with little breathless moans that disappeared into his mouth.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a tan Fiesta racing past them along the access-road, headed for the highway. With an intense force of will, Moocher broke from the kiss and buried his face in Cara's neck. He debated for a moment whether he even wanted to ask. "You wanted me to save you, didn't you?" he whispered at last into the smooth flesh of her throat. "You set me up."

"Yes," she confessed, panting into his ear as he continued to stroke her nipple.

"Why?"

Instead of answering, Cara reached down to tug up her long skirt. She wriggled against him, working her panties down and off, then slipped the undergarment into his pants pocket, grinning. Her hands went to his fly.

"Jesus, Cara," he swore desperately.

"I want you." Her softly-spoken words burned against his flesh as she unzipped his pants.

"FuckIdon'thavearubber."

She laughed. "What kind of Catholic boy are you?" she teased, her drawl slow as honey. She clasped his erection, and he groaned. "Rubbers..." she scoffed. "I'm on the Pill, sugar." Drawing his hand from her breast, she slid it between her legs. His fingers, almost of their own accord, worked themselves into her passage, and Moocher's eyes tried to roll back in his head: he had never felt a girl so wet before. Cara hummed with pleasure. "Do you like that?" she whispered in his ear. "Do you wanna feel your cock inside me?"

"Uh-huh," he gibbered, as she tilted her pelvis toward him and cocked her leg over his hip. He grabbed at the hot flesh of her thigh with his free hand and wedged himself closer until his fingers slipped out of her and his prick slipped in, and the angle was so tight that he had to wiggle himself up into her, and he sobbed aloud with need.

"Oh, god, you feel good, sugar," she gasped.

Experimentally, he pulled out a little, then thrust back into her, just to see what it would feel like, just to see how long he could stand it. Cara gave a little hiccup of pleasure when he filled her, and Moocher knew it was a lost cause. He began to pump into her frantically, the liquid heat of her sheath shivering him. Incredibly, she urged him onward, clutching at him and filling his ears with her eagerness for him to come. He grabbed her other thigh and leveraged her against the tree. She writhed with him in an attempt to pull his length even deeper inside her. She moaned and begged and clenched herself around his cock, and even in his wetdreams, fucking had never been this good, and once again she drew his orgasm from him before he was ready to give it, groaning and shuddering like a teenager getting his first handjob.

He pressed his body against her in dismay, burying his face in the curve of her neck. "Shit, I'm sorry," he muttered.

"About what?" Cara asked, her voice open and curious, if a little breathless.

"That wasn't exactly..."

She stroked his hair soothingly and kissed his acned cheek. Moocher ducked his head, mortified even more deeply by the feel of her lips against his inflamed skin. The movement twisted his body so that his wilting erection trickled out of her.

"Wasn't exactly what?" she prompted, trying to bring her face level with his.

He released her and stepped back, running both of his hands through his hair. He screwed his face up in an agony of embarrassment. "I didn't really last very long," he sighed.

Giggling, Cara leaned forward to kiss him briefly but deeply. Her hand snaked into his pocket to retrieve her panties, which she then bent to slip on. "You had me pinned up against a tree ten feet from the road," she quipped. "I wasn't looking for a fuck-a-thon."

"Christ, Cara." Moocher zipped himself back into his pants, eyes wide with shock at her casual obscenity.

She tilted her head and gazed up at him challengingly. "Did you really think I was a nice girl, sugar?"

When he said nothing, she snagged her satchel from the ground and took a step toward the road. Moocher grabbed her around the waist, pulling her to him until her shoulder-blades touched his chest. He smoothed her hair out of the way and let his lips brush the shell of her ear as he demanded, "Hey, who was that guy?"

Cara exhaled happily and relaxed into his embrace. "Who, Frank? He's a doctoral student in History. He's been trying to get me to go out with him for a while."

"So, what? You said 'yes' this time just to tick me off?"

"Not everything's about you!" she laughed, twining one arm up and back to clasp the nape of his neck. "I didn't know you guys would be here tonight."

"Ally didn't tell you?" he asked suspiciously.

"We only made the plans today when I was at work," Cara insisted. "I haven't seen Ally all day."

Moocher grimaced into her neck. "How could you agree to go out with that fat-ass? Seeing him touch you made me wanna puke. Nasty, fat sausage-fingers..."

Cara giggled and twisted around to face him. "Not everyone has your metabolism, sugar!"

Her lips were only a hair's-breadth from his own. He grazed his mouth lightly against hers. "Why do you always call me 'sugar'?"

Her eyes flicked down, then up again, and the seductive smile on her lips sent the blood flowing right back into his groin. "Because you're so sweet," she cooed.

Moocher kissed her eagerly, amazed at how his desire was rising once more. Cara ground her hips against him. He broke from the kiss. "We can do it again, if you want. This time..." He paused, blushing. "The second time it'll take me longer."

She smiled crookedly, curious. "Why are you so fixated on this timing issue?

"You know," Moocher insisted, screwing up his face.

Cara raised her eyebrows.

"Well...I figure you're used to being with older guys, who're, you know, _better_ at this, and I want..."

"What?" she prompted. She narrowed her eyes at his embarrassment. "If you can do it, you can say it."

"I feel like maybe you might..." His eyes widened meaningfully. "...come."

She toyed with one of the buttons on his shirt, tilting her head coquettishly. "Is that what you want?" she murmured. The tiny bit of moonlight that penetrated the trees shone in her green eyes. "To make me come?"

"Yeah," he breathed, the thought of driving Cara to ecstasy swelling his erection further.

Silently she took his hand and began to lead him along the road, still inside the shadow of the woods. Moocher thought at first that she was taking him somewhere they could make love more comfortably, but soon he realized that they were simply headed back to the drive-in's parking lot. Her hand was warm and soft clasped in his own.

"Cara, I'm _serious_," he insisted. He pulled her to a stop. "I know you don't think I'm very good at it, but just show me what to do. I can learn how to make it really good for you."

She considered him for a long moment. He could not read the expression on her face. "We should get back before everyone starts to wonder," she said at last. "And your wife will be expecting you home soon."

oooOOOooo

A/N: Yes, I moved "Nightmare on Elm Street" up four years, just b/c I thought it would be cute for Moocher et al. to be watching it.


End file.
